


Wallbreakers

by igpay_atinlay



Series: Little Wonders [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin
Genre: Crack On A Stick, Drabbles, F/M, Gen, Other, bendy exercises soon to come, not really interconnected, oneshots, smallpotato
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igpay_atinlay/pseuds/igpay_atinlay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As one exasperated officer once said, "The war don't matter a fig. Falling in love is the real battle here." Featuring exercises in nonrestraint, unholy conduct and potatoes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wallbreakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi eats. Poor Sasha watches. Mastication and temptation go hand in hand when one seems to like both well enough.

Once upon a time, a man set his son down and told him, "Son, sometimes the world turns upside down and you do stupid things, most probably because your arse has ended up your head and your head has upped for the hills because it couldn't stand being in your arse...well you get the point, right?"

The son stopped chewing sausage and feigned comprehension.

The father cleared his throat and ploughed on. "When that day comes, all you can do is hold on to your pants, breathe and let the moment pass-and hopefully not fart while your brain is still in your arse."

The son never really understood what his old man was getting at, so he let the advice sink to the bottom of his memory like silt in a septic tank until one day...he really really wished he'd remembered that cryptic little message. And really, as in get-down-and-scream-why-God- _why_ -

Thus, began the age old tradition of fathers sitting down their slack faced sons to impart this golden rule: "Never let your head rule you while your arse is still in it."

So sons, when the time comes, don't. Just don't.

Only, Levi never had a father, and while mercifully escaping the clutches of bad-father-jokes and awkward sex talks, he was deprived of that life saving rule. That is to say, when the little alarm in the pit of his stomach went off, essentially screaming: "BAD THINGS ARE COMING FOR YOU-"

-he didn't get it.

* * *

 The mess hall is rife with the sound chinking mugs, the clattering of cutlery on military issued plates, and the steady drone of chatter. Soldiers sit like bags of flour on the benches, propping up their elbows on the long well-worn tables as they slurp down stew. The atmosphere is bustling- all except for that one little circle of quiet that everyone does their best to avoid, because, well-

( _The tale has it that one graduate from the new 105th corps actually asked his senior why. The senior took a deep breath and took him into orbit around the spot...and then Captain Levi tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and said: "Move, you little shit. You're in my way." ...The graduate's never really recovered._ )

Zoë Hanji though, has no such qualms about personal space, much less Levi-Space.

She plonks her arse down beside him and slings an arm around his shoulders like a rabid boar encompassing a mongoose, the kinds he’d once seen in an illegal excursion to an ‘Endangered Species Exhibition’ as a child. Levi sighs, but carries on eating. There is no fighting Hanji when she’s got an idea in her head. She tosses him a fragile little box all wrapped up in pink crêpe paper, sugary soft and terribly expensive by the look of it. It lands right by his bowl of stew with a soft 'put put' sound that stinks of luxury. Trademark Wall Sina, Levi acknowledges with one very, very sarcastic lift of the eyebrow.

It's bow-tied and simpering and he sure as hell doesn't need Hanji's incessant cooing about how pretty it looks. Levi wants to lam the box right back in her face, hand already twitching with preliminary action, but his nose picks up on a faint scent of sweetness emitting through the wrapping, bringing him back to a time when nicking fruit of a vendor's stall was second nature and savouring it was a treat to be treasured. He pauses mid-air.

"I had the liberty of meeting one of your adoring admirers, oh _distinguished_ and oh-so _honourable_ Captain", Hanji simpers right in his ear.

"Piss. Off," Levi mutters. Hanji is like a burst of undesirable manure to his steadily growing impatience.

"Oh, but Captain," Hanji prattles on, "If only you'd seen her! She had lovely grey hair and a figure like a sack full of apples tied in the middle, so elegant, so _beayuuu_ -"

He sets down his spoon, eye twitching. That eye twitch is a legend on all its own; separate from the entity known as Humanity's Strongest Soldier. That eye twitch is Humanity's Worst Nightmare. Hanji has seen the ramifications of not acknowledging that eye twitch.

“Hanji.”

“Sir?”

“Disappear.”

"-Okey dokey," she chirps-

-and runs for _hell_.

* * *

 Levi takes another mouthful of stew, striving for complete freedom from expression. He chews, he swallows. That shitty ass pink catches his eye.

Open. Open. _Open_. The fucking box is speaking to him, he swears it; lying there in its false innocence, taunting him, teasing him.

He pauses just to spite the damned thing.

The lunch crowd bustles around him like a bunch of fat flies -all their chatter and slurping and the goddamned food dropping on the floor- _it's like it has eyes, big googly beckoning_ – No. No. He's strong. He's disciplined. He's-

-shoving in his last spoonful and slicing through the wrapping with one swipe of his dinner knife, bowtie and all.

He takes a second to drink in the sight of the contents. Strawberries. A boxful of off-season strawberries nestled plumply on their little round behinds, glistening little red jewels just waiting to be tasted. And all for him.

* * *

 - _then he's back on the streets, creeping up on the fat, squishy looking vendor who always used to set up his cart on the corner beside the post office, him with the sweaty face but clean hands. And he can remember how it was to lie waiting in the little crevice by the office with his stomach an empty, hollow pit, eagerly awaiting the moment when the fat ugly turned away from his wares. He'd reach out a hand, like a snake, and then the moment passes by so fast, the next flash of memories are the cobbled streets whizzing by and the beat beat of his footsteps a pattern drummed into his head –little street urchin clutching his prize to his chest- and the Lance Corporal's hand itches for a memory to hold._

* * *

So here it is: Lance Corporal Levi fucking _loves_ strawberries. He can't remember the last time he actually had a bite of them, and here they are -a boxful. Full. Box.

It's a good day.

But the issue at hand is that he won't stand for other people-especially not this current batch of lardlings sharing air space with him-watching as he takes enjoyment from eating them. Hell, he can't stand the world watching as he takes enjoyment out of _anything_.

So he waits. And waits. And waits. Moments tick by, measured out to the sounds of eating and rare laughter. In his bubble of enforced stillness, what little joy his soldiers can scrape together permeates to him. Candlelight washes over the fruit, lighting them up like little beacons of salvation-

And then Levi just _loses_ it.

Humanity's strongest picks out a strawberry by the tips of his fingers and takes a bite of personal heaven. Fresh, clean flavour erupts on his tongue, sending a sweet slide of juice down his throat. It leaves a hint of tangy aftertaste, a niggling itch of sourness that perches on the balance of ripe and unripe, the kind that drives his tongue to rub up against the edges of his teeth. The strawberry is remembered perfection in his mouth. He finishes it in greedy bites, one, two, gorging on the tart, juicy plumpness of fruitflesh.

He summons up years of discipline to avoid taking another one immediately, and because his eyes are closed with the effort to contain that moment of appreciation,he hears it-that minuscule sound of enjoyment.

 

A whimper.

 

And it's not him.

* * *

_"Hey guys?" Connie squeaks at one point during lunch. "Tell me I'm not the only one seeing this?"_

_"Eh?" Jean looks up from his plate. "What?"_

_"Are you not experiencing this miracle? Sasha's not stealing our food!"_

_The entire table pauses mid-action. "Well damn," Reiner wonders and as one entity they turn to Blouse-_

_"Well damn," Reiner says again._

_She's not eating. Sasha Blouse, resident food disposal unit, sits trancelike in her seat as Mikasa actually puts a hand in front of her mouth to feel for vapour. "She's breathing." she confirms flatly as Ymir snorts her stew._

_"Mikasa that’s not exactly hard to miss," says Armin wryly, seeing the agitated rise and fall of Sasha's chest._

_They watch as she hyperventilates, dazed and squirming in her seat. Connie can't fathom what in hell's name she's doing, staring into the empty space at the table in front of theirs. “What do we do?”_

_"Uhh...anybody got a spare loaf?" Eren asks._

* * *

 Levi's eye snap open at the sound and -darn if it isn't just typical- sees the girl, the village girl who eats like a fucking bear-

-staring. At his mouth.

 There is a desperate, almost pleading pull at her lips, a tightness somewhere along the white edges of her nostrils. He snorts -but it is, rather, entertaining-

-fascinating-

- _distracting_ -

-how her almond brown eyes are blown wide and open, her breathing just a teensy bit laboured-why, it's almost- _almost_ -

(Somewhere in the universe there's a father's convention in crisis mode. Because, boys? You know those times when you absolutely need to remember the goddamn rule that your predecessors tried to drill into your heads?

This was one of them times.)

Levi reaches inside the box and her eyes flit to his fingertips. Interesting. His curiosity piqued, he moves his fingers back an inch; she follows the movement. He twists his hand in a bizarre imitation of a flexing exercise; her pupils blur with the effort of keeping up. He brings his index finger to his lips and flicks his tongue out to taste the remaining specks of juice; she positively squirms.

Interesting.

He takes another strawberry, dangles it tantalisingly before both their eyes- and then in glorious slow motion, he lowers it into his mouth, tongue snaking around the rounded curve of it, coating the fruit with slippery saliva and hot breath. He bites down hard, spattering the insides of his mouth with juice as he in turn keeps his eyes on her face. He documents the by-play of emotions; the anxious misery, the anticipation, the widening of her mouth as she sucks in a sharp breath, how she flinches as his teeth _snap_ -

-but truly, it is the explosive darkening of her eyes, conscious light of intelligent brown slipping into a hazy, sultry shade of deep amber that occurs the instant the fruit's pocked surface pushes pass his lips. It is the little flick of her tongue, echoing his enjoyment. It is a hearkening to distant memory, a dream painted in faded hues that tugs at the emotions he has long put away. Tangled sheets, long drawn out sighs that echo of nights spent in a haze of passion, and he's lost.

Watching the village girl sends sparks of pure sensation straight to his groin. And it's damned inconvenient. As an afterthought, it's also laughable. She's a child.

 _No child looks at a man like that_ , his mind argues, _like they're aching for him, wanting and needing_ -

* * *

_Levi has never liked the look of hunger on a person's face. It reminds him too much of overgrown maggots swallowing down humanity just because the filthy fucks feel like it. It reminds him of the countless refugees roaming the streets, of inadequacy and empty promises. Of loss and dishonour-_

* * *

 -but Sasha Blouse is something else entirely. Because when Sasha Blouse looks at the strawberry making its jolly way to consumption, she doesn't look hungry; her face is a thunder flash of want, thrumming with attraction so base it's downright _unholy_.

Sasha Blouse, surrounded by her teammates and assorted comrades, Sasha Blouse in a room full of people, Sasha Blouse sitting across from her commanding officer, she of the clenched fists trembling thighs, looking like she'd like nothing better than to tackle him to the ground-

-and suck the strawberry _right_ out of him.

It's shocking. It's criminal. It's demented-

-but he rather hopes she'd do it anyway.

* * *

_It takes the squad some panicking and three bread sticks before they manage to snap Potato Girl out of her funk. She spends the rest of her lunch period deflecting questions by stuffing her face with baked starch and cold stew; cheeks puffed and stained so red that Mikasa reaches for her again, this time to check for broken blood vessels, but she says nothing, nothing at all-except to mutter some blasphemy about the devil and temptation under her breath. Just once._

_She leaves a lot of crumbs._

* * *

On his next trip to Wall Sina, Levi gets Hanji to point out the overaged admirer who sent the strawberries and hell, she is _ugly_ -but he deigns to curl his lips up in her general direction.

Two weeks later, the Scouting Legion's supply officer dumps a fruit crate in front of Sasha's door.

There's a note tucked in the crevices of the wooden panels. Sasha unfolds it, smooths out the little paper with trembling fingers. The handwriting is sparse, but the whismsical little loops not quite disguised around the y's and u's turn the roiling mess of her stomach into something quite-why, _almost_ -

* * *

 

It says:

 

Your turn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More prompts please. This pairing is so cracktastic I could weep.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me some prompts! And reviews, those are nice. Or doughnuts. Those are nice too.


End file.
